Blood
by Queen Shnoogleberry
Summary: yah... lame title... recomendations welcome. Basicly, after a particularly horrid arguement, Holmes starts to doubt he's human and does something horrible to confirm he is, much to Watson's horror. Slash HW. Angsty yet funny... I blame stress over school
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I (sadly) don't own these characters… and though I shall forever love and worship them, they shall never be mine… their owner shall forever be the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, to whom I must apologize for the ruining of his characters while Emo-ing… I'M SORRY!!!

"And that pretty, pretty woman?" Watson questioned his friend, Sherlock Holmes, who was giving the details f his last case.

"Ah, well the marriage was annulled and she got her money back." Sherlock's tone was that of a calculus teacher explaining basic addition. Uninterested.

"My goodness, she was a pretty one, don't you think so?"

Sherlock shrugged, indicating, not only boredom, but irritation as well. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times! I really have no interest in women and I mean it!"

"Honestly! You can't tell me you didn't take the slightest-"

"For the positively final time, I don't care about such things!!!"

"Good heavens! You really can be so inhuman! You're like some machine! I really am beginning to find you vexing!"

"Well then, Doctor, you need not find me so any more this day!" With that, the detective slammed the door to his room.

Holmes looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was pale and rough looking. Mostly because he had been working since yesterday morning. With a sigh he reached for the pitcher of water and poured some into the basin before him. Watson was right. He hated to admit it, but sometimes he really did act like a machine. He rarely showed any emotion at all, and when he did, it was when he was under extreme pressure.

He picked up his razor and soap.

"Am I even still human? Do I even possess a soul? Am I destined to suffer the fate of Faustus? Trading my soul for knowledge?"

"NO!!!" A voice in him cried. If he were a machine, he wouldn't care what the doctor's thoughts were. He wouldn't care for Watson the way he di-"

"NO!!!" His internal voice cried again. He mustn't allow such thoughts. He mustn't give in. If he did, if he gave in…

The blade slipped. A cut was made. One inch long and not very deep. Still, as blood fell down his face and into the bowl below him, he began to wonder… If he were a machine… surly it wouldn't hurt…

He gasped.

It hurt. It hurt like hell.

So he wasn't a machine, then.

He looked down at his wrist, bloody and dripping. "I'd better stop the bleeding, then…" He took a clean handkerchief and wrapped his wrist.

It bled. Three handkerchiefs were soaked before Holmes decided he needed a doctor, and after their fight, he could not go to Watson. The man'd take the blame for his self-mutilation upon himself. The wound needed stitches. Pacing his room, he decided on a plan of action.

Watson heard his friend's door open. Without a word, Holmes walked to the fireplace and threw in a bundle. He changed his dressing gown for a frock coat.

"Holmes, I-"

"I'm rather too busy for chatting, Doctor."

"But Holmes, I… Good heavens! You're so pale!!!"

"I always am." With that he left.

The doctor slumped in his chair. He had apparently said something in their argument that had touched a nerve. "Ah, well… I'll apologize when he returns…"

The stairs wavered before him. "I must have more blood than I thought…" He decided. He was too dizzy to even see the trail his dripping hand was leaving. He grasped the banister. "Seventeen stairs! Just take them one at a time…" He thought.

He made it down the first two steps before his strength failed.

Watson heard the thud. He rose from his chair and headed for the door. He paused, horrified. The door knob was smeared with blood and there was a trail of it heading for the stairs. He took a few seconds to collect his nerve and heard it. Mrs. Hudson's scream. High-pitched, terrified, and frantic.

Forcing his eyes from the floor, he raced to the top of the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was bent over the susceptible detective, calling him, shaking him, clenching her handkerchief to his wrist.

"Doctor Watson!!! OH! Help!!! He's bleeding!!! His wrist!"

Watson bent down beside her. "Go into my room and retrieve my black bag. He's lost a lot of blood already, so we must close this as soon as possible." His voice was gentle to keep the hysterical woman from loosing all control.

She took off, glad for the doctor's orders to keep her from panicking and for the sense of being helpful.

Watson took a good look at his friend. Holmes was still unconscious and the mass of blood matting his hair was a good indication of why. He removed the handkerchief to assess the damage. The wound was deep. Nothing he couldn't fix, but it need treatment, and soon.

Mrs. Hudson returned and handed him the bag. Watson took it and calmly cleaned and stitched his friend's gash. Holmes was still unconscious, so Watson took his head and cradled it in his lap. He wasn't strong enough to carry him up to his room, so he would have to leave him, here, at the foot of the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson," He spoke in a soft, weary voice. "We can not move him now, so could you please get a blanket?"

"Yes, sir." She wiped her tears and headed for the linen closet.

Watson pulled Holmes closer to him, his heart was racing. He didn't know exactly how much blood his friend had lost. Quite frankly, he didn't even know if he would survive.

Mrs. Hudson returned with a thick blanket. "Thank you," Watson whispered as she covered Holmes's long, lean body. "There's nothing more you, or I for that matter can do. You may as well go to bed."

"Alright, sir. Call if you need anything.'

"I will." There was a pause. Watson placed his hand on the older lady's arm. "I'll take care of him. Don't you worry."

"Thank you, sir."

As soon as Mrs. Hudson was out of the room, Watson brought Holmes even closer. Stroking his hair and fighting tears, he began to whisper in his ear, "My dear Holmes, you must wake. I can't loose you in such a way. Please, please don't give in to this. You must pull through. Think of all the cases you'll miss if you die now…" There was no response. He gave into his tears as his friend's breathing slowed. Sobbing into his hair he gathered his courage. It was now or never. He must say what had been on his mind since they began to live together, almost five years ago. "Oh… Sherlock… I… I love you… I'm madly in love with you… please… don't leave me… If… If you leave me… If you die… I'll… I'll follow you. I swear! I'll die with you!!!"

Somehow he heard it. His unconscious mind heard his friend's whispers. "Yes," He thought, "I must pull through… I WILL pull through…"

His eyes fluttered. Watson started. "Holmes…"

"After what you just told me… don't you think you should call by my first name?"

"HOLMES!!!"

"Please… not so loud…"

"Sherlock!!! How dare you?!? How could you do something like this?!?"

"Oh… Watson… have you no idea? I feel the same way… but when you called me inhuman-"

"NO!!! I'm sorry!!! Oh my love!!! I never meant it!!! I loved you… and you-"

"Hush… There's no need to continue… just… hold me…"

Watson obeyed. After sever blissful moments it was Sherlock that broke the silence. "I think it'd be best if I was in my own bed now…"

"Can you climb the stairs?"

"As long as you'll volunteer your arm as support."

"Most certainly."

As soon as a weary Sherlock washed his hair and was tucked into his bed the doctor turned to leave. "NO!!! Don't leave me!!!"

"Holmes… I-"

"NO!!! If you leave me… I'll wake up and find it was all a dream!!! Just another dream."

It was the "another" that made his heart wrench. How many times had his friend awoke to an empty bed, after dreaming that it would bear the presence of another. "He's lonely!" Watson realized with horror. "I'll stay… but…"

"Yes?"

"You must call me John."

"I… I… alright… please come here… John…" Sherlock arranged the bedclothes inviting his friend to lie beside him.

He hesitated only for a second, and then sank down beside him with a contented sigh. The detective snuggled up beside him and soon they were both asleep.

The next morning, a slightly stronger Sherlock attempted to climb out of bed. "Don't you dare" Growled a certain doctor.

"What are you going to do?"

"Sherlock… really… you should sleep…"

He walked back over to his friend. Gently he drew his hand across John's face. "I will, but as soon as I get something to eat…"

"Alright… but Sherlock… please… let me know if anything ails you…"

"Will you prescribe me cocaine?" He asked with a smirk.

"NO!"

"You DO know I was only joking… right…?" 

"…Holmes…" He received a stern look. "Sherlock, then… I really worry about you… your cocaine binges… you really… you get so nasty… and you talk… of… Sherlock you talk of suicide…"

"Well apparently I've tried it too… JOHN!!!" The doctor was crying, sitting up in his friend's bed. Sherlock went to him.

"S-Sherlock… you're my best friend… one of my only friend's… if I were to loose you… I couldn't go on… I love you… I really do…"

"Oh, John… I never meant to go so deep… It was an accident… I'll never do it again… I swear"

"Alright… but… how are we to continue? Now that we know each other's secret…"

"What do you mean?" He gave his friend a concerned look.

"Well… it would be horribly immoral, not to mention ILLEGAL to live together… let alone let this go anywhere…"

"Does that mean you don't want to?" He stood up and took a few steps back.

"Sherlock! I-" He threw himself down onto the bed. "I want you. I want you so much, but it's a sin… I can't have you go to hell for me… God knows I am willing… but-"

For an answer, Sherlock walked back to him. He kissed him. Passionately. "Watson, I am more than willing. It was hell not knowing whether to confess or not and it would be even worse to not be together now."

"Sherlock… will you… tonight…?"

"Yes." He kissed him again. "Yes, I will."


	2. Chapter 2

He kissed him again.

Sherlock had carelessly left his door open. As they were kissing, a worried Mrs. Hudson came to check on her tenant. What she saw were the two men on the bed, Holmes on top of Watson, fervently embracing. At first she was startled, horrified even, but when she saw how happy the detective looked, particularly after the last night, she couldn't help but to feel happy for him.

With infinite quietness, she shut the door. If they wanted to do this, she would ignore it. She couldn't agree with it, morally, but if it helped with Holmes's bloody mood swings… They DID make a cute couple; she had to admit, in a disconcerting sort of way.

Sherlock climbed off his lover, before they both got too excited. "Come…" he gasped. "I heard Mrs. Hudson lay out breakfast." He headed for the door. When he saw it closed he paused. He knew he had not closed it. The only explanation was that Mrs. Hudson had done it. He decided not to say anything to Watson, unless he had to. Why worry him? She might not even care.

He sat across from the doctor at the table. The room glowed with pale morning light, lighting the doctor's face. His predatory eyes devoured him. It made Watson shuffle in his chair; he couldn't bring himself to eat more than a few bites. Sherlock's glaze never left him. Always there, always piercing, always predatory.

His stare never went astray all day, if anything, it became increasingly keener. "Heaven help me live to tomorrow." Watson thought.

At long last the clock struck ten O' clock. Mrs. Hudson headed to bed. "At last!" Watson thought "Now he'll stop looking at me like that."

"Sherlock… shall we-"

"No. We must wait an hour until she's asleep."

"Shall we do something more quite, then?"

"Eagar are we?"

"To get you to stop looking at me like that!!!"

"My apologies. But you really are tempting. It was impossible not to ogle."

Watson shivered. Sherlock stood up and reached for his pipe and the Persian slipper. He puffed away for a few minutes, looking out the window. Subsequently he turned to his lover. Taking his pipe out of his mouth, as if he were going to say something, he paused then placed his pipe in Watson's mouth.

The doctor was stunned. It felt odd to be puffing on someone else's pipe, but, truth be told, he had always wondered what it would be like to smoke Sherlock's. He could feel each grove his teeth had worn in it over the years. He felt as if he was learning his lover's mouth more thoroughly now than a thousand kisses ever could teach him.

Sherlock walked back and tenderly removed the pipe from his admirer's mouth. Their eyes met for a second, and then Sherlock kissed him. It was fiercest kiss he had ever received yet tender at the same time. Sherlock's knees grew weak so he sat on Watson's lap. The doctor's arm went around the detective's back to support him. Sherlock's hand found their way to Watson's hair.

He pulled the doctor's head back and attacked his throat. Watson was helpless for several minutes. "Sherlock! Stop… you must stop…if you leave a mark… if anyone sees…"

The detective grudgingly pulled away. "Watson, one day I will take you and do all that you are afraid of… and there will be nothing you will be able to do about it."

"You mean rape me?" He smirked.

"Precisely, well, if I need to, anyway." Sherlock wasn't smiling.

The doctor stood up, knocking a scowling Sherlock off of him. "If you have so little respect for me, then I want none of this." He turned on his heel and headed or the door. Sherlock caught his wrist.

"Watson, you know I'd never take my pleasure at your expense. But I want you. All of you, and I'm determined to have you, without you looking over your shoulder. Even if I have to pretend to have raped you and go to the gallows."

"Sherlock… I'd never have it."

"Then I'd have to rape you."

"No. I will not do anything more if you plan on that."

"You really don't have a choice at this point. I love you and I intend to have you."

"That's not love. That's lust. Pure, undiluted lust." He pulled free and left the room in a hurry. By the time he reached his room, he was out of breath. He slammed the door behind him and locked it. For good measure, he placed his chair under the door handle.

All night he sat up, feeling both annoyed and guilty. As dawn crept across the horizon, he reached for his cocaine bottle and needle.

A weary Dr. Watson descended the stairs the next morning. He found Mrs. Hudson laying out the breakfast dishes. He also found Holmes sprawled on the settee, smoking his pipe and so intoxicated from his cocaine that he was having trouble focusing.

Abruptly he hated him. Hated him with all the passion he had felt the night before. Holmes never loved him, just felt lust for him. He took his unwillingness to sleep with him out on his own body with drugs, trying to get Watson to show some concern so he could manipulate him again. This time into his bed. Well he would have none of that.

"Mrs. Hudson, help me to pack. I'm moving out. I can't stand him anymore." He spat. He pointed to Holmes.

Dr. Watson sat in his room at the hotel that was his current residence. He wanted so much to forgive Holmes, but he knew that if he did so, it would only happen again.

Mrs. Hudson entered the drawing room with a tray full of food. "Please, Mr. Holmes, just eat a little…"

"No…"

"You'll starve at this rate!!!"

"Nonsense, I just ate yesterday."

"Oh! Mr. Holmes!!! That was a week ago!!!"

"WHAT?!? Surely not!!" He sat up on the settee where he had been lying.

"It has been a week since Dr. Watson moved out and a week since you've eaten. You've been drinking brandy and taking so much cocaine that you've been sprawled here, so intoxicated that you don't even know the date!!! I certainly hope you're proud of yourself!!! You passed out a once in a lifetime chance for love and wrecked a years-old friendship for your own selfish pride and self pity!!! Watson's-"

"So you knew…"

"Yes. And I thought he was bloody good for you. Too good it seems."

"It's been a week… I should have gone after him… He must have given up on me by now… Where is he staying?"

"I shan't tell you unless you promise you won't cause him grief."

"I love him, even if he does not believe it… I swear."

She gave the address.

Holmes found himself at the hotel. He got his friend's room number from a sleepy concierge, and headed up the stairs.

Watson was desperate to forgive Holmes, but he knew that it would be a mistake. "I am just as bad as he is," He told himself, "I crave his flesh, nothing more."

There was a knock on the door. He opened it; a chastely smiling maid looked up at him. Watson was not fooled. Some instinct told him she was loose and looking to make another few shillings anytime. He invited her in.

Holmes walked along the corridor to Watson's room. He paused when he heard a small noise, but deciding it was nothing, he continued. He heard it again as he reached his friend's room. It was unmistakably a moan, and it unmistakably came from Watson's throat. There followed a second voice, this one feminine, moaning too.

A cold sensation started at his head and took hold on all of his skin. He turned on his heel and left. Only a week since their fight and he was already sleeping around. It was clear who cared the least. "I hope never to see him again!" He muttered.

When he arrived home, he ate whatever it was Mrs. Hudson put in front of him. She wanted to question him, this he knew, but he didn't exactly have an open expression. In fact, she stayed no longer than was absolutely necessary.

He didn't know weather or not he still loved Watson. He wanted, horribly, to awaken and find it was all a dream, or even the doctor to have a reasonable explanation for what had happened.

Watson looked out the window as the maid pocked the money he handed her. Holmes had been given a week to apologize, so far, and nothing. Not even a note or a telegram. The initial anger had begun to fade, and he was beginning to regret moving out. Holmes and he had something… between them… or used to, at least. "He doesn't love me." He muttered, long after the maid had left the room.

"But," his mind argued, "If he doesn't, then why did he risk his life to help you in all those cases…"

"Because he owed me…"

"Don't be a fool, he loves you. Now swallow your pride and make things up with him." He reached for his coat as there was a knock at the door.

Mrs. Hudson couldn't wait for Holmes to talk. She was dying with curiosity, as well as a need to help Holmes, who was in some ways, like a son to her. She slipped out of the house and headed for Watson's hotel.

Watson answered the door with his hopes high. They were dashed, somewhat, when he saw his former landlady. "Mrs. Hudson! Allow me to get my coat, and I'll meet you downstairs for tea."

As they sat over steaming mugs, the lady started. "Mr. Holmes came to visit you today and apologize. I really hate to pry, but can you tell me what you said to each other? He's simply murderous!!!"

"I have seen neither hide nor hair of him since last week."

"But he-"

"Wait!!! What time did he come here?"

"Well he left Baker Street around noon, so he should have been here around…"

"Oh, hell…"

"Sir?"

Watson went pale as he realized what Holmes must have overheard. "Mrs. Hudson, hail a cab, while I gather my things. I have a lot of explaining to do. "And even more apologizing to a dear friend." He thought.

"So you're coming back?"

"If he'll have me. If not he deserves the opportunity to throw me out."


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes stood by the window, watching the rain fall. He was heavy with regret. He missed Watson, and he really loved him. He felt an all consuming feeling of loneliness. He called Mrs. Hudson. He wanted someone else in the room, even if he had to make up a task for her, or even ask her if she cared to play cards. He was very desperate and would do anything.

He waited several minutes for an answer before he called again. When no answer came, he searched the whole house top to bottom, but found no trace of her. He gave up on finding and started staring out the window and waited for her to return.

After an hour or so, a cab pulled up. Holmes watched with rigid breath as Mrs. Hudson exited with another man. A man he would recognize anywhere.

Watson.

"If he dare come here again, he'd better have a damn good excuse!!!" He muttered against the window, leaving a foggy patch on the glass, half angry, and half hopingly.

There was a timid knock on the drawing room door.

"Please enter," He paused and took a deep, painful breath, "My dear Watson."

"Holmes… We need to ta- … I must beg your forgiveness."

"Watson, this is about the hotel, am I right?" He sat down in his accustomed fire side chair.

"Yes. I made a terrible mistake." Watson removed his hat and turned it over in his hands.

"Hang your coat and sit down by the fire; I don't want you to catch a cold." Watson obliged. "Now, shall we discuss this like two gentlemen?"

"Holmes… I'll admit it. I slept with the maid. I was craving your flesh and attempted to settle it in the most easy and carnal ways. But… My dear Holmes… it didn't work. In truth, I knew it never would. No one can even get close to-"

"John! Hush… I understand… Let's not worry about why just now But, before we continue, I must know, do you love me? Do you truly love me or is it mere lust you feel?"

The doctor looked deep into the detective's eyes. "I love you. I love you more than anyone I've ever met, and I know I shall love you until the day I die. And you?"

"I love you, terribly. I never met one as loyal as you. Never, until I met you did I have a companion I leaned so heavily on, and I never will. I love you and want only to love you forevermore." As he spoke, Sherlock slid out of his chair and knelt at John's feet. "If you will give yourself to me today I swear I will never leave you."

"Sherlock… I… I am yours."

Darkness fell on the scene inside that house. A prideful detective cried into his lover's lap as the doctor stroked his hair and whispered to him. At long last, the clock struck ten O' clock and the detective rose. He took his companion by the hand and led him to his room.

Sherlock twisted his key in the lock. He then tuned to John with a look of such adoration that the doctor had to shudder; Sherlock's eyes went wide and child like and he shuddered at the sight. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his lover. "It's warmer in my bed ."

Sherlock started to undress the doctor. In a few moments he was bare to the waist and the detective could see as his chest expanded and constricted as he inhaled and exhaled rapidly. Sherlock put a hand on his chest, over his heart. "Don't worry; I swear I will take a knife to my own throat before I harm you."

"That's not what I'm worried about…"

"Tell me."

"I'm afraid I will not be enough to keep you satisfied."

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's and whispered against his lips. "You overwhelm me."

With a relieved sigh, John allowed himself to be pressed into Sherlock's sheets. The detective removed his own top clothing and joined him. The doctor shifted closer and the detective wrapped his arms around him and held him close. They stayed like that for a long while. Sherlock felt thoroughly exhausted from his cocaine binge. John felt the same, but from the stress of fighting with his best friend.

Sherlock shifted his arms and used them to support himself as he climbed on top of John. His hands explored his chest with the infinite detail that Sherlock was particular to. He kissed John and slowly worked his way down, with his hands leading. Finally, when the detective's mouth was at the doctor's navel, his hands were made use of in the removal of the doctor's trousers. The doctor didn't even feel the invasion, due to Sherlock's nimble fingers, until skin came in contact with skin.

John moaned.

Sherlock began to work his way back up, shedding his remaining clothing as he went. His lips made their way to John's again, then to the doctor's throat. He began to bite him low on his neck, so low that his collar would easily cover it. The doctor moaned yet again and he detective began to work harder.

Sherlock pulled away for breath. There was a brief moment of eye contact. One final consent, one gaze of infinite passion. Sherlock drew his hand across the doctor's brow and kissed his forehead endearingly.

Then he began.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning found them both exposed and clasping each other in Sherlock Holmes's bed. With a sigh the detective yawned and stretched until he heard his spine crick. He gave a restless wiggle and, determining that John would not wake for another while, got out of bed. He dressed and sat at his desk, working on replying to his built up correspondence. The dawn sun was still rising and he determined that he had an hour and a half at least until Mrs. Hudson awoke.

He had been working for about an hour when John shifted and gave a small noise that was half moan half whine. Sherlock stood and walked over to his bed. His passion from the previous night had been replaced with a mischievous affection, like day replaced night.

He caressed his sleeping lover's hairline. It was with a sad sigh that he poured a glass full of water on the doctor.

"WHATTHEDEVIL?!??!??!?" John sat straight up in bed.

Sherlock was laughing so hard he was actually doubled over.

"You may find this amusing, but it's YOUR bed that's wet."

"So we sleep in yours tonight."

"Still… did you HAVE to awaken me so… evilly…?"

"You are so cute when you're angry, you do know that right?" He kissed him. "How was last night for you? Am I better than your previous female lovers?"

"Well…" John decided to torment him in return. "They were a lot more… skilled… and they were a lot better looking…" Sherlock's mouth fell open in indignation. "And they certainly didn't talk back…" He began to laugh. "No… none of them could hold a candle to you."

"That'd better be the case." He sniffed. "I'd better be enough to hold you for awhile… male or female… or I may have to resort to drastic measures…"

"What pray tell…" John's eyebrow raised in amusement.

"Well I could dress up as a girl, seduce you… take you to a hotel room… slip a sleeping draught in your drink, stick you in a wheelchair, claim you're ill, take you back here and then have my way with you."

"Why not in the hotel room?"

"I imagine it would seem odd to some people for a man and a woman to walk into a room then have a man call another man's name… and being me, it has to be insanely complicated."

"You're insane…" He sputtered in between his laughter. "You really are a nutcase, my love."

"Well that's better than being boring, anyhow."

"I suppose… though you don't have to be infuriating ALL the time… you could try being kind to me once in a while…"

"I'm afraid that's impossible. You're going to rue the day we met by the time I'm through with you…"

"I hate you." John smiled.

"I love you." Sherlock smirked.

"Breakfast, you two!" The long suffering Mrs. Hudson called.

It was a few weeks later, when Sherlock was busy on a case, and John was weary from a busy day of seeing patients, that the doctor went to sleep in his own bed, fearing an attack of lust that would prevent sleep. The detective arrived home late that night. He sat before the embers of the fire and reflected on his latest victory… He was sure he wouldn't have anymore cases for a while. His cocaine bottle was tempting, but he knew it would upset his doctor… so the bottle remained untouched. He reached for his violin, instead.

He was about to touch his bow to it when he heard a faint moan. Not a moan of pleasure, but a moan of terror. Taking the violin in his hand, he climbed the stairs to his lover's bedroom. What he saw, upon entering, alarmed as well as saddened him. John was fighting some imaginary enemy in his sleep, and loosing.

Knowing that he would not want to be seen like this, he decided not to awaken him. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed a played to him. The songs were calming and easily comforted the fretful doctor. Still, he continued to play, long after the moans and struggling were replaced by soft, steady breathing.

Sherlock did not want to leave him. So he sat on the edge of the bed until dawn's faint pink lit up the sky, then, fearing he would soon awaken, he went down to his bed. He stayed there for several days.

John sat by the fire as Sherlock emerged, hair a mess and blinking at the sudden light. He laughed and invited his lover into his lap. He stroked his hair and whispered to him, "You were asleep for several days. Are you feeling better now?"

"Quite." Sherlock murmured and snuggled up closer. With a yawn and a stretch he rose and fixed himself a pipe. "John… I really must talk with you…"

"About what?"

"You… you were having a nightmare a few nights ago…" He spun around and faced him. "Are you alright? Because I do worry about you… and I would rather know what your problem is than be wondering… imagining that worst…"

"It was just a nightmare from the Afghan Campaign… I'll have nightmares until I die… I guess…"

"Not as long as I'm around, even if I have to stay up all night playing to you."

"So it was you…"

"Who else?"

John rose and wrapped his arms around his lover's neck. "You DO realize that it was not the music that calmed me? It was simply knowing that you were watching over me…" He kissed the detective. "You, my beloved, you."

Sherlock scooped the startled doctor up into his arms and carried him to his room. He deposited him on his bed. He climbed over him and began planting kisses along his neckline. He stroked his hair with a sigh. He kissed his forehead and buried his face in his hair. The detective continued with his affectionate gestures, but never anything that would lead to sexual intercourse.

"What exactly are you aiming at?"

"I don't want to have a purely sexual relationship with you… can't we just cuddle for once?"

"You don't know the meaning of the word!"

Sherlock laughed. "Well… I could always have my way with you…"

"Oh! No please!!! Spare me your horrid-"

"HORRID?!?"

"Well… you try…"

"I'll show you horrid!" With that Sherlock began to tickle the hapless doctor.

The unfortunate Mrs. Hudson heard the commotion of the two on the bed. She shuddered and went back to the soup she was making. At least her long fear of Sherlock taking advantage of a distraught female client was put to rest.


End file.
